


were you ever mine to keep

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (it's not as sad as it sounds like I promise), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They burned brightly and much too quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	were you ever mine to keep

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me where this came from, but I am strangely smitten.

He saves her brother, and she is grateful.

“I can'tthank you enough,” she says.

He smiles, moustache lifting. “Do not worry yourself with thanks, Serah. Your brother has proven a good recruit. The order will benefit from his joining.”

She tries not to grin, remembering hard words delivered in a dark place ( _you may not see him again; being a Warden is not a cure, it is a Calling),_ and when she hands him the letter with her brother's name, he tucks it into his coat without protest–

“Take care, Serah Hawke.”

“Warden Stroud.”

–and when he leaves, she knows they'll meet again. 

.

He saves her, and she is more than just thankful.

When Kirkwall falls, she runs. The Wardens name him traitor, and he runs, too. They meet on the road, fellow fugitives with a common cause, and for a brief moment, Hawke finds a strange peace in his presence, settled around their campfire at night. The Inquisition, they agree, and in the dark they make their plans, to save the world that has cast them out. 

She comes to know him. She finds he is a light sleeper, plagued at times by nightmares, as she has heard Wardens are wont to be. He drinks his tea too hot, and hums under his breath when he sharpens his sword – an old lullaby, he tells her, that his mother used to sing when he was a lad. He asks if she has any from Ferelden, and she sings one to him, finding a grin when he tries not to grimace at her cheerful butchering of the art. He is polite to a fault, but will curse up a storm if he leaves his boots out in the rain. And Hawke tucks every little detail away, like small smiles for days when she cannot find her own. 

Neither of them are strangers to death, but it comes close one evening, facing an ambush of dark things come crawling out the forest shadows. She takes a tumble, drops her staff and it's too late to roll out of the way, but he intercepts the blow, sword gliding elegantly from a parry to a strike, and an inhuman shriek tears through the quiet of the night, dying to leave only silence and her ragged breaths.

“I can't thank you enough,” she says, heart drumming a furious beat against her ribcage, and – she's covered in blood and spider guts, but when he pulls her towards him she comes, hands scrambling, mouths clashing. It's frantic and hurried but she doesn't care, she doesn't give a fine damn about anything but his hands on her hips, and it's – messy, rough and inelegant, but she finds her laughter, a deep-buried thing, and it comes easily with the relief surging through her veins.  _She feels alive._

They are both breathless when the fire dies out, but there are languid kisses against her shoulder. He says nothing – asks no questions though there are many to be asked, and when he falls asleep Hawke stays up, keeping watch as the sky lightens, heralding another day and she feels –

Good. Not happy, not yet, but she feels something (and it's more, oh it's so much more than  _nothing_ ). 

.

He calls her Marian, and – she likes it.

She is 'Hawke' to so many people. For some, that is all she is and all she will ever be, for they do not know her well enough to assume she is anything else, or to have asked for her given name. For some it is a title more than anything – a moniker, like 'Champion'. For others, it's a curse, but regardless of their reasons, Hawke is what she is. Who she is. 

But to Stroud, she is Marian.

It marks the start of something, the first time he says it – quietly against her skin, as though testing it out. His accent makes it a lovely thing, like a slow warmth curling, and her laugh is breathless in her surprise.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says. “I'm just not used to hearing it.”

He smiles. “Marian,” he says, with confidence now. “Marian Hawke.”

She hums. “Just Marian, if you would.”

“Just? My heart, you have never been  _just_  anything.”

He says it with conviction, and she feels it, deep in her marrow, and she is happy then, in that moment, when she is Marian and the only thing that matters is his smile when he says it. 

.

He loves her, and she thinks she might feel the same.

It's hard, after losing so many (her sister, her mother, Kirkwall, slipping from fingers stiff and cold with never-ending grief), but when he looks at her in the soft evening light, a warm smile lurking beneath his whiskers, Hawke  _feels_. And it's not anger or sorrow but something new, some gentle thing she does not know quite how to feel but that she might, one day, if he keeps looking at her like that. 

“I can't thank you enough,” she says, smiling mouth against his throat, and she feels his laughter in her bones. The words have become something more than gratitude – something theirs, private and affectionate, like the favour he wears around his wrist, evident to those who know what to look for. 

“We might try again and see,” he says, with a rare mirth she does not hear often and it's hers, this little thing, this dearly private thing.

She laughs. “Should we do a count?”

They don't, of course, the thought forgotten between kisses, between touches that fall like feathers, and those that grip with near bruising strength, desperate in their affection. But it doesn't matter, for he has given her more than she can name, and if she cannot tell him she will show it. 

.

He stays behind, and it breaks her.

The Fade is at their fingertips, an impossibility she had never before considered but now she loathes it – oh, she loathes it with her entire being, though she feels too cold for her anger to burn in earnest.  

She volunteers, and he looks at her with unrestrained grief, and when she means to protest he tugs her forward. “I cannot stand the thought of it being you,” he says against her mouth, before he shoves her towards the others, silent anguish in his kind eyes as he demands –  _pleads , he pleads and she has never seen him plead for anything_  – for her to go. 

There are hands on her arms – Varric's, and the Inquisitor's and voices telling her  _they have to leave they have to leave_   _now_  – and with her eyes still holding his, a last, desperate tether, she lets them take her. 

 _It has been an honour,_ he says, and he doesn't look at her when he says it, but she knows it's for her as much as it is for the Inquisitor.  _It's been an honour to know you, to hold you, to love you. It will be an honour to die for you._ These are things he does not say, but she hears them regardless. 

The last she sees is his back turn, his sword drawn and his last charge – and her name on his lips – "Marian, forgive me". Marian, always Marian, and it breaks her heart. 

She comes out on the other side, whole and hale (and yet not, of course not, she will never be whole, not after this), and with Varric's voice in her ears  _"I'm sorry, Hawke."_

The seige of Adamant won and their Herald back, the forces gathered around them cheer, but Hawke feels no victory, only loss. 

.

He dies for her, and part of her dies with him.

She dreams of spiders for weeks – wakes up, heart in her throat and reaching for a warmth that's not there, fingers grasping at nothing. It is she who has nightmares now (it used to be him, so often and she would be the one to wake him from them), but there are no hands to wrap around her, no accented voice to murmur nothings in her ear. 

She goes to Weisshaupt, and delivers the news of his death to recruits who greet her like one of their own – who tell her of his strength (as though she does not know), of his good heart (as though she was not its keeper) and his determination. Carver is not there, and for once she is glad of it – he would know, of course he would. He'd take one look at her and know, and Hawke cannot bear the pity. 

After Weisshaupt, she travels. Aimlessly she wanders, fighting a restlessness that keeps her awake at night, though she longs for the Fade in her every waking hour. She wonders if he lived – and if he did, for how long. She wonders if he wanders, too, somewhere. 

There is no grave for her to visit, and no place for her to find rest. The world is ending – another Breach tears the sky apart, but Hawke can only watch it, heart numb with an ineptitude that has no name, no cure. 

But – the sky clears. Heals. She receives a letter from Carver, asking about her whereabouts, and as the world slowly begins to put itself back together, Hawke does, too.  

“I can never thank you enough,” she says to a quiet night sky peppered with stars, no Breach in sight, and the truth rests like stones in her pocket. But she will not drown in her sorrows (not now, not ever). Instead she carries them with her, heavy at first but with every step taken they become lighter. Bearable.

She finds Carver again. He looks like their father, now – dark stubble on his chin that will grow into a full beard, and he wears his uniform well. Proudly. A legacy, she thinks, but not hers, and  _I cannot thank you enough. I can never thank you enough._

All it takes is a look, and he knows, but – he says nothing. He simply draws her forward, silent in his understanding. 

“It's good to see you, sister,” he says, and it is what she needs. It is not enough (but it will never be enough, not after this, perhaps never), and she will never be  _Marian._ She is Hawke again,but the world is whole, and her brother is alive, and she needs no more than that. 

She does not know what awaits at the end of her life, if it is at the Maker's side she will find herself or somewhere else, somewhere closer. I can't thank you enough, she thinks, but she hopes, between every breath taken, that she will one day get the chance. 


End file.
